


gonna lure you into the dark

by ashers_kiss



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (not that you can tell because I suck), Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, F/F, mentioned Jane Foster/Thor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first night, it’s supposed to be a quiet night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gonna lure you into the dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluflamingo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluflamingo/gifts).



> For [bluflamingo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bluflamingo/pseuds/bluflamingo) as part of [femslashex 2013](http://femslashex.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
>  _Huge_ thanks to [Teigh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Teigh), [yit](http://lokkatattur.tumblr.com/) and [amine-eyes](http://amine-eyes.tumblr.com/) for all the help and encouragement. I owe you guys so much. (And to [littleblackghost](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackghost), for letting me babble at her about this when she was still very firmly in the I-hate-Marvel camp.  It's okay, we're winning her round.) All mistakes are mine and not their fault. I want to stress that part.
> 
> Apologies to my recipient - I did want to write you this huge big thing about their being the only sane two in the middle of the mess that would be the Avengers in Prohibition New York City, but. Well, that didn't happen, due to RL time constraints. (Apparently I forgot when I went back to college that there's quite a lot of homework involved. /o\\) So I decided, rather than give you a long story that wasn't anywhere near as good as I wanted it to be, and you deserved, I'd give you part of that story and focus on making it good. I'm still not 100% on it, but I think that's just because I have the spectre of the bigger story looming in my head.
> 
> I still want to write that story, though, if only because I want to do more with the Prohibition than the tiny references here that barely do it justice. And I'd already had fun fitting people into their roles in this. So when I have more time I'm going to sit down and do that, so keep an eye out. Till then, I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed imagining it. :)
> 
> Title from [Kill of the Night](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lncIXl7a5fQ) by Gin Wigmore.

The first night, it’s supposed to be a quiet night. Even Happy says so, gives Darcy a flat look in the mirror when she says, “What’s my crowd like, darling?” As if she doesn’t say the same thing every damn night. She’s predictable that way.

“It’s _Monday_ ,” he says, because Darcy’s not the only predictable one around here. She rolls her eyes at him, pouts at her reflection and fluffs her hair.

“You’re such a _bore_ , darling. Live a little, you might enjoy it.” She slides around on the stool, pushing herself to her feet as she turns and doing her fair damnedest not to get caught on the wardrobe. Again. (She’s ruined too many dresses that way, but like she always says, that’s what happens when people cram a dresser inside a cupboard and call it a dressing room. The boss tends to order doubles when she does, though.)

“You got two minutes,” Happy yells after her. Darcy turns just enough to blow him a kiss, wobbles in her heels ever so slightly.

Truth is, Darcy likes Mondays. Sure, the bar’s quiet and the tips are low, but she doesn’t have to wear sequins or hemlines that would make her mama blush, and if she’s honest (never, Jane would say), Darcy has her fill of the tassels and shit at the weekends.

The boys on band – only four of them, even the boss isn’t made of enough money to pull in a full band on a Monday night – are already warming up when she gets up on stage, and they’re going to be having _words_ about starting without her after the set. Darcy glares until one of them has the grace to duck his head, music sliding to something a little more within her range. _Showtime_ , something whispers inside her, the same thing that make her stomach flip and her blood fizz like the champagne they’re not supposed to have in the back room, every time the lights hit.

But then, it’s Monday, so there’s no spotlight, no deep blues and bright, blinding reds. Just dimmed lights and Darcy up on stage, alone, her voice gone husky in the almost-dark. She likes it best this way anyway.

Even then, it takes her a while to notice she’s being watched. Monday’s quiet, it’s not _dead_. (Not in this bar, not in this town. Someone’s always thirsty. And Darcy’s pretty sure that’s some of New York’s finest in the corner, but she ain’t pointing fingers. She _likes_ this job.) And this girl, she’s not exactly made herself easy to find, tucked in a corner booth with her legs crossed and her arms folded in tight, hat low over her face. Heck, Darcy isn’t even sure it _is_ a girl at first – the shirt’s loose in all the right places, and Darcy’s not exactly a stranger to pretty boys either, not in this place.

But then there’s a shift, a tilt of the head and Darcy can just make out red curls and the barest hint of a smile. She can’t take her eyes off that corner the rest of the damn set.

When she gets back out front, she heads straight for the bar, slides herself in beside the owner of those curls like it’s nothing (so close she can feel the material of the shirt brush against her bare arm, sending goosebumps rushing across her skin) and orders a beer. Logan doesn’t even argue with her anymore – she’s got him well trained, even if she’s not _quite_ crazy enough to say it to his face – just sets the bottle down in front of her and leaves her to it. And Darcy, she’s a performer. She puts on a _show_ , cocks her hip and tips her head back, takes a good, long drink. In her defence, singing’s thirsty work.

She catches the glances, long enough that she knows that she’s supposed to, and that’s all she needs. She turns, props herself against the bar and looks her admirer up and down, taking in pressed lines and the slightest hint of curves. Does her own admiring. “See something you like, doll?”

There’s a soft sound, almost like a laugh. “I am not a doll.” Darcy wasn’t expecting the accent, thick and rich. It sends something hot shooting down her spine to pool in her belly, and the, “No, but you’re sure as hell pretty as one,” is out her mouth before she realises.

It takes a moment for her brain to catch up with her fool mouth, and oh, _fuck_. “Fuck,” she mutters, lets her shoulders slump for all of a second. Then she pulls herself together. “We’ve got a rule here. Never listen to a word that comes outta my mouth.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Logan mutters, and Darcy glares at him, because no one asked him. But the girl – and she should probably stop saying girl, Darcy knows a lady when she sees one – she might be smiling now, maybe. Her hat’s been lifted, only covering her eyes now, and there’s an almost invisible curve to her mouth, which, now that Darcy is looking, is…full and red and Darcy’s mama would never forgive her, but the things she’d do to know that mouth better.

Darcy swallows, says, “We also never listen to Logan. He’s a grump.” Out the corner of her eye, she sees him flip her off, muttering under his breath about ungrateful little brats as he goes to serve someone else. “But we especially never listen to me. Really.”

That’s definitely a smirk now, sharp and dangerous enough to cut. “A shame,” and that’s a drawl, practically _purring_ , and Darcy feels it all the way down to her _toes_ , even as the girl mirrors her, arm propped on the bar and giving Darcy the exact same look over she gave her. Darcy is so, so fucking screwed. “I was looking forward to…talking with you more.”

Aw, fuck. “You got a name?”

She inclines her head. “Natasha.” Darcy about chokes on her own spit, can barely get out her own name. It’s worth it, though, when Natasha leans in close and breathes, “You have a room, Darcy?” Her name sounds different, sharper, the kind of thing that should only be said in a locked room, and Darcy _knows_ she’s blushing.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” She’s got a room. She’s got a whole freaking _apartment_ , thanks to Jane’s new boy and his daddy’s money that Darcy doesn’t ever want to think about, and Jane’s insistence on not leaving her in that fleatrap, and oh, _Jane_ – “And a roommate. A real fucking nosy one.” (“Inquisitive,” Thor called it once. Darcy had gagged until Jane threw a book at her.)

Natasha hums, dips her head enough that Darcy can feel it in her own throat. “I have one. Across the street.”

Right. Because there’s the motel, and it’s good, it’s clean and the Parkers are good people, don’t ask questions and fuck, fuck but Darcy should _not_ be doing this. She can feel Logan watching her from the other end of the bar, and Happy’s been glaring over Natasha’s shoulder from the door to the back room for a while now.

Then again, Darcy sure as hell ain’t in this job for other people to tell her what to do. And God knows, it’s not the craziest thing she’s ever done. Besides, Natasha smells _really_ fucking good.

“Lead on, doll.” Darcy grins up at her. The corner of Natasha’a lips hitch up again, just for a moment, and she knocks back the glass she's been nursing like it was water; Darcy thinks it was, anyway, until she smells the vodka, sharp as everything else. She’d be a liar if she said her knees didn’t go weak. Natasha has to tug her towards the door with a hand around her wrist, careful and chilled from the glass, calluses catching on Darcy’s skin.

By the time dawn rolls around, Darcy’s thighs and mouth are stained with Natasha’s lipstick, and Natasha has marks on her hips where Darcy held on too tight.

She slips out closer to midday, when the sun’s too bright through the cheap shades to get anymore sleep and her mouth tastes kind of stale. Natasha grumbles into the pillow in something that sure as hell ain’t English, and a hand shoots out to pull Darcy in for another kiss before Natasha drags herself out of bed (completely naked, completely unashamed of the fact, and Darcy can’t help it, looks her fill) to escort her to the door. One last kiss, more a press of lips, and Darcy’s out the door, hearing locks slide into place behind her. She’s pretty sure the Parkers only ever put one lock on the guests’ rooms.

She gets home, and Jane’s still up, covered in ink and surrounded by paper. Didn’t even realise Darcy had been gone. Darcy puts her to bed anyway, because she loves her. Then she takes a bath, because she will never get used to the fact that she _can_.

She doesn’t see Natasha at the bar the second night, or the third. She doesn’t expect to, really. Which Darcy is okay with. It happens. Not everyone meets their one true love in a speakeasy, she reminds Jane. Not even one of Tony Stark’s.

The fourth night, it’s Darcy’s night off, and she spends it with Jane and Thor and his friends, who are far too freaking loud for her night off and mostly too nice to resent for it.

The fifth night, she comes out after her set to find Jane at the bar, and Jane doesn’t drink, hasn’t ever; her eyes are red and there was a lot of hushed whispers with Thor last night when they thought Darcy was sleeping, and Darcy never finished school, but even she can put together two and two and not screw it up. Jane’s sobbing in her arms (Logan trying to pass them handkerchiefs, and anything else, Darcy would be taking note of how uncomfortable he is) when Darcy notices Natasha. She tries to smile over Jane’s head, thinks Natasha sees her. Then she has to get Jane home and give Thor as much hell as her mama taught her how, until he’s on his knees in front of Jane apologising for whatever it was he _did_. (Because Jane wouldn’t say, no matter how much Darcy coaxed.)

The sixth night, though, Natasha slips into Darcy’s dressing room ten minutes before Happy’s due to appear. She’s gone without the hat tonight, her curls bouncy and bright even in the shitty light, and she pushes Darcy up against the wardrobe and thoroughly _ruins_ her make-up. “Find me,” she says, when Darcy’s still trying to get her breath, and she’s gone again. Darcy’s heart is still racing when Happy calls for her.

But she does find her, after, drags her backstage and bars the door with her stool. Natasha makes approving noises at her dress, one of the newest numbers with a little fringe that dances whenever Darcy moves. Then she gets on her knees, and the last thing Darcy thinks about for a long while is her damn _dress_.

It's going to be a habit, the two of them, she can tell. And, well. Darcy’s had worse habits.


End file.
